How can a woman be so
cold?
As if a demon swept up her soul -
Took it away to the hollows beneath,
kept it in stomach, held as a feast.
This wicked, she stands,
a mosquitoed mouth
burrowed in victims
swallowing shouts.
Holds no mercy
to the truest believer,
crushing their will
as they stand just beneath her.
Will no morning come? Will no victim rise?
To cast her down through photographer's eyes?
To gaze then, upon her
to show her what's what!
May no glory save us
from this feminine smut?
May no warmth become her?
A bottle, a pen
this ink will destroy her
killing her, then.
Taking her reign to a solid end.
My Reaper, such a humble friend by comparison.
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